


(darling, don't wake up)

by apocalyvse



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, WandaVision (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Will The Real Slim Shady Please Stand Up, and maybe the ending is different who knows, canon compliant except it's the right pietro, just a lil rewrite it's cool it's fine, mcu pietro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29988564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalyvse/pseuds/apocalyvse
Summary: He remembers the world moving around him in slow motion, but not like this. He remembers the sounds of war, bombs and guns and people screaming, he remembers days and days of silence, punctuated by hushed whispers and the scrape of shovels against rock. He remembers being afraid, being angry, being so caught up in the world that he couldn’t see a beginning or an ending or any sort of hope, and yet-And yet, as he hauls himself to his feet, inch by agonising inch, he can’t remember anything at all.---the right pietro comes to westview
Relationships: Pietro Maximoff & Wanda Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	(darling, don't wake up)

_Time to wake up._

The darkness lifts slowly, shifting from black, to purple, to the crimson red of the sky blazing above him. The ground is soft but its stones are sharp, and the air is cold but his limbs are colder, his breath stopping just short of filling his frozen lungs. He’s not sure he knows up from down, or where he is or why. He’s not sure he knows _who_ he is; or if he is anything at all.

“Come on, handsome,” a voice croons, and all the colour drains from the world, leaving him in the dark again. “Time to get out of bed.”

He jerks to life in an instant, a hollow puppet tied to tangled strings, dragging itself into some sense of upright with limbs all askew. The effort sends pain shooting through him, excruciating as it wracks every bone and twisted muscle, squeezing at his chest and threatening to empty out his stomach.

He tries to open his mouth and scream but nothing comes out. He gapes, silently, hands scrabbling at his neck like he’s choking, but there’s nothing there but the thought, and every movement brings pain anew.

“Sorry, sunshine,” the woman says. Her nails are sharp against his cheek, trailing down the length of his jaw. “It’s not easy to turn something inanimate into something living. You’ll just have to live with the pain.”

 _Inanimate_? he asks, but the words don’t make it to his cracked lips. _Not alive_ , his brain whispers back, but that doesn’t answer the question he can’t ask, or any of the other questions he can’t remember thinking of; _where is he, what happened, why does it hurt, who is he, who is he, who is he_ -

“Do as you’re told, and it won’t hurt a bit,” the woman says in his ear. Her voice is sugary sweet, like the words are dripping in honey, pulling him in and drowning out the heavy traffic of the rest of the world, whatever the rest of the world is.

 _Who are you_ , he wants to ask, but there is a flash of brilliant light that bleeds through the empty black of his vision, and then a cold wind brushes him and the warmth of her hand fades into the cold, hard ache of his limbs.

He opens his eyes.

He is lying face-down in the middle of a street, rocky asphalt pressing its memory into the soft flesh of his cheek. This feels right, though he can’t fathom _why_. His limbs are made of wood, stiff and heavy, hard to move, and his chest aches, and he feels like he should get to his feet but every try leaves him gasping for breath, his fingernails digging into his palms like that will distract him from the pain.

 _What is this_? He remembers – he remembers the world moving around him in slow motion, but not like this. He remembers the sounds of war, bombs and guns and people screaming, he remembers days and days of silence, punctuated by hushed whispers and the scrape of shovels against rock. He remembers being afraid, being angry, being so caught up in the world that he couldn’t see a beginning or an ending or any sort of _hope_ , and yet-

And yet, as he hauls himself to his feet, inch by agonising inch, he can’t remember anything at all. The war fades as soon as it comes, his mind washing itself clean before he can grab onto anything solid. Only the pain remains, always there in the back of his mind even as it rises and ebbs with each movement he makes.

Out of all the memories that bloom and wither before him, lost before they even begin, only the present stands still enough for him to take it in. He’s standing in the middle of an empty suburban street, surrounded by dark houses too tall to see anything past. The sky above him is dark and scattered with stars, the moon bright in his tired eyes as it hangs full and large over the town. The streetlights are even brighter, casting a golden yellow glow over perfectly manicured gardens and white picket fences.

His lip curls in disgust at the idyllic setting, though he can’t remember what’s so horrific about a quiet suburb. His feet shuffle against the pavement as he turns a stiff circle, his body protesting against the twist of his shoulders as the rest of him follows his eyes. He doesn’t have the time to notice, because his eyes land on the house across the way and he just… _knows_ suddenly.

That’s where he should be.

His feet stumble towards it unbidden, towed along by some unseen string. A shadow flickers in the window of the house next door, a curtain shifting as if the cold wind has reached through the glass to ruffle it, and his heart leaps into his throat in anticipation of something. The rush of fear isn’t enough to stop him walking, though. Nothing will stop him, not himself, or the ripple of red that runs across the sky, or even the long grass of the lawn trying to wrap itself around the toe of his shoes.

With shaking hands, he rings the doorbell. And then rings again. And then leans against the doorframe and tries very hard to catch his breath while he wonders if this place is achingly familiar or completely foreign to him.

The door opens. He jerks upright, spine snapped straight. All the air escapes his lungs again with the effort, twice as fast as he had found it. A soft frown greets him, sad eyes creased with frustration, framed by a head of hair that gleams a soft red in the living room lights. The face is familiar, in a definite, undeniable way that the house is not. Even as her frown turns to shock, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging half-open like she doesn’t know what to say, he is sure of it.

“ _Pietro_?” she says incredulously, a whisper more than a shout. The name rolls awkwardly from her tongue, like she doesn’t know how to say it right, and yet as the letters fall from her lips, flashes of a thousand other times that voice has said his name rush through his mind.

He doesn’t know how to reply (he can’t recall her name; even his is new to him, rolling around and around in his head; _Pietro, Pietro, Pietro_ ). In the end, he doesn’t have to know, because his body does it for him, spreading his arms to each side and pasting a lazy smile on his lips.

“Do you give me a hug now?” he asks. He’s pretty sure that’s not how he speaks, but the words are gone by the time he realises it.

His sister frowns ( _sister_ , he recalls with a jolt of surprise. _Twin_ ), but she reaches out to embrace him anyway, her arms warm against his cold skin. Her touch hurts, like knives, like bullets, but he doesn’t flinch away. He _can’t_ – even when he wants to, something inside of him clings to her like she might disappear if he lets her go.

“What are you doing here?” she asks as they part, ignorant of the way his heart pounds like he’s been shot, his head spinning and stomach twisting.

“I don’t know-” A sharp pain shoots through his chest, ricocheting between his ribs. For a moment, he could swear that he is bleeding, watching in horror as a dark stain spreads across his shirt – but he blinks and he is clutching at an imaginary wound, gasping for breath when he doesn’t need to. Wanda stares at him in shock, one hand outstretched as if to help him ( _Wanda_ , that is her name; _Wanda_ , his _sister_ ). Her other hand is trapped by a man that he could swear has a red face, and not in a natural way. He blinks again, but the effect doesn’t fade like the bullet wound. He’s not sure what to think about that.

“Who’s the popsicle?” his mouth asks for him, the words slurring together as they slide past his tongue. His voice sounds like someone else’s, his lips stiff and uncomfortable as they form each syllable, like he’s saying words he’s never heard before. He marvels at the strangeness of it as his feet fall out from beneath him, and his face finds another cold, hard surface to rest upon.

His stomach twists again, displeasure crackling in the air around him. _You think too much_ , someone whispers in his ear as the world turns black. _Play the game properly next time._

**Author's Note:**

> heyyyyyyyyy. what's up. how's it going.
> 
> this is intended to be a rewrite/replacement of all the scenes pietro is in, so there should be another like, 3 parts. it's a good time, huh? @marvel, hire me.
> 
> i love comments. have a good day :)


End file.
